


Secret Love Song

by ultrafreakyfangirl



Series: Hassandra AU [1]
Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: F/M, First Time, I take hassandra prompts, Or not, admission of feelings, hassandra all the way, idk tho depends on the reception of this here, might be part of a ficlet series I might start, oh wait I'm a writer thirsty for validation, so send em my way, tell me if you like it, that's it i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 09:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19331743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrafreakyfangirl/pseuds/ultrafreakyfangirl
Summary: Cassandra and Harry - everyone loves to love them, and so do I. Takes place in and around the second episode. Obviously, Cassandra (RIP) never dies.





	Secret Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Before you read any further, though I didn't think it necessitated any sort of archive warning, there are mild depictions of sex. If you're not a smutty person, (well, it's more smut/fluff) here's your warning. :) Please review and I hope you guys like it! This is my first work on this platform, so I'm kind of nervous. Also, I'm accepting prompts and am pretty open. I hadn't realized this fandom had totally blown up on here - imagine my excitement! :)

Cassandra hadn’t been denied of much. She grew up privileged, and while she wasn’t ashamed to say that, or live in that lifestyle, because lord knows her parents worked their asses off for that money – her mother a defense lawyer and her father a mechanical engineer, it also meant that a lot of what went on in their house, was _ask and you shall receive_. Her whole life. Until she turned seventeen.

That, what she would call a _mentality,_ took a tailspin then. Freshly seventeen– fair skin, milky eyes, light hair, minimal makeup but a natural rouge, she was _the dancing queen– young and sweet._ Until she met Harry Bingham.

Not just as a casual passerby in the hall, or the mop-top who sits across from her in lit class, not even as her right hand man in their school’s play. Not like that. It went on, her wishes being granted, until she met him for _real_. It was after all of this _shit_ happened.

He showed up at the pharmacy. Desperate. Clinging. Onto the cage. Onto _her_. He cried out that he needed some stuff, actually cried, like this guttural, yet gruff, _John Shade_ kind of sound. It scared her a little. Only a little though.

She wasn’t a baby, not like some of these people. She could take some tears. Some anger. Some brutal, visceral frustration because can anything fucking go right around here!? _The answer was no, Harry. No, it can’t._ _And do you want to know why?_

When he looked at her, straight on, his eyes watery and somewhat unfocused, and asked her plainly, void of that intense emotion that had hold on him before, _why, could you really answer that, Cassie, **why**_ – she realized that she’d spoken aloud.

And she couldn’t. Answer him. They were in some fucked, world-upending, sort of shit and none of them, none of their mommies and daddies, could make it any better. All of it rested on their shoulders, they weren’t adults yet though, just close to it, so who were they _really,_ to know _anything._ Least of all what the fuck to do here. In this place.

“Hm, Cassie? Your pretty little mouth got an answer for me?”

He’d never called her that before. _Pretty._ She associated _pretty_ with girls like Helena or Kelly, girls with angular, exotic features, or sleek cheerleader ponytails. She wore pinstripe shirts and faded jeans that sat high on her waist, and sometimes, or most times, her socks stuck out of her shoes.

She felt like the way she dressed was ambitious. Driven. Professional. She was confident in who she was, in her own, demure sort of way where Helena was vain, and Kelly was simply unwitting. Or maybe _she_ was the unwitting one.

The way Harry was looking at her now – eyes wide, pupils dilated slightly, the curl of his hair askew, but for once he seemed unbothered, because his focus was elsewhere – on her, she started to think that maybe she had it wrong about her appearance after all. That maybe she was _pretty._

“One,” she said to him now – slowly, careful, with an extra breath in between her words. “And that’s that you don’t have an answer for me, either.”

He looked down at his shoes, still pristinely white, which was weird, and then her own eyes travelled further. Upwards. His plaid shirt was wrinkled, his top button undone to reveal a piece of his chest to her, baring a small silver chain, which was digging slightly into the skin of his neck.

“I haven’t had a decent nights sleep since we got here. I need something stronger than that over-the-counter shit.”

She shook her head before her eyes travelled down. She wouldn’t go there. Luckily, he spoke again, and her focus was now on his words. His mouth. Almost colorless with exhaustion, or dehydration. But still, she wanted to lean towards it _. Fuck_.

He had been doing this to her for awhile now. Giving her sly looks in between scenes, whispering compliments into her ear after curtain, squeezing her forearm or elbow when he passed by her in the wings, but that was it. His plausible flirting only existed within the space of the theatre, never beyond its confines.

In school, or at lacrosse games, where she was strictly a spectator in support of Will, with Allie, or wherever else he happened to see her, there was nothing. None of it. He had always acted like he was indifferent towards her, and for the sake of the elections, she’d hoped, there was some animosity, some passive aggressive comments.

And sure, she reciprocated, because she didn’t know what else to do, and banter with him gave her an outlet for all of these feelings she was having. She had to channel that energy somewhere, because after awhile, she started to feel like she might explode. Like right now.

Except _now_ , there was no school, no lacrosse, no election, no buffering classmates. There was just scared kids, alone in a town that they’ve known all of their lives, but somehow, it now all seemed big and bad and foreboding. Threatening. Not all that different from her composure.

It threatened to break, to push her too far so that she couldn’t go back, to say things that she wasn’t ready to say, to admit things she wasn’t ready to admit. And on top of that, she couldn’t read him. Ever.

But he had stopped talking and was looking at her again. Really _looking_ at her. It was almost like he could see her thoughts like script on her irises, and in the reflection of his own, she saw that they were darkening. Out of sheer frustration, or lust, which at this point was probably sheer in a different sense, transparent and begging, she wasn’t certain.

But suddenly, he seemed to be, because without another word, another breath, he took her face in his hands, cheek in palm, and kissed her. Kissed her hard. Rough, but soft, in a way that left her able to decide if she wanted to pull away or not. _And she most definetly did not._

“Harry,” she whispered when they broke apart. She had no idea why she was whispering.

It was only the two of them in here, now, this early in the morning. The sun barely awake enough to show its face.

“Cassie,” he whispered back, and maybe, she thought, it was the intimacy of the moment; the serene, authentic intimacy that nether of them particularly wanted to ruin with their voices.

It might make this all too real then. And _real_ meant a likelihood for repercussions.

Did she want to risk it?

When he leaned in and kissed her again, gentler this time, sweeter, in a way that she hadn’t believed Harry Bingham was capable of, she lost her breath to him as his hands wrapped around her waist and he gave a sharp tug to pull her closer. _That_ was a little more like the Harry she knew, but even still, and probably because of it, she leaned in further to him, counting on him to hold her up.

“Cassie,” he murmured into her neck, his breath warm and stale with booze, but it didn’t make her pull away. “I’ve wanted to tell you for awhile now.”

“Me too.”

Her voice was just as quiet, and she wondered, weirdly self-conscious now, what he was thinking her breath was like. Did it reek of morning, or was it just soft, and inoffensive? She really hoped the latter. He gave her hand a tug, and she understood, poised to follow him out of the pharmacy and back to his place.

Was she ready for that, with him?

As if sensing her anticipation, her hesitation, he stopped before they left the store, turning to face her with all the questions he felt he should ask showing themselves in his eyes. And she was ready. Now that she knew that he felt the same. Especially now.

With him, she wasn’t Cassandra. She was _Cassie._ A free spirit, a girl who giggles instead of laughs, who paints her toenails a deep red, who shrieks instead of screams, and who loves without holds barred.

So, she leaned into him. And he kissed her back. And it went on like that, a delicate balance of give and take as their lips pressed together and separated, and came together again, and eventually, his mouth never left hers, not until he whispered her name into the dampness of her neck as he entered her.

She stifled the urge to moan but then he tugged on her hair and trailed soft kisses along her collarbone, telling her, _baby, just let go_ , and she did, she _really_ did, her hips rising from off the bed to meet him in tandem.

She wasn’t shy anymore. He had her, now. There was no reason to be.

She liked that he was calling her _baby_. It wasn’t something he seemed fond of calling Kelly, or maybe it had been, and she just didn’t notice, but she wouldn’t dwell on that because here he was, in between her legs, murmuring it again, husky and his own moans heady and slick.

“Come for me.”

For a second, she wasn’t sure if she could. But it was only a second, as she roped her hands through his curls, carding her fingers through the mess of gel and _boy_.

Then her fingers drifted down to the sharp set of his jaw and its full stubble, not patchy and red in places, which made her think of a _man_ , the man that he was becoming now, at almost eighteen.

He called her baby again. Roughly at first. Then softer, sweeter, quieter.

“I know you want to. You’re there. I can feel it. I can _fucking taste it_ , baby.”

She let out a surprised mewl, because that was suddenly all she could manage. It was _happening_. She knew it was.

It wasn’t like those times in the dark with her bedroom door shut and her panties at her ankles, with her fingers deep within the innermost part of herself, physically speaking, while she strained to keep quiet as her legs shook with miniature tremors and the ache she felt getting closer, and _closer_ but never close enough. Until now.

“Oh…oh, _god, fuck_ me, Harry.”

Her voice was choppy, raspy with lust and alight with a foreign feeling. She was overwhelmed, she couldn’t – she really didn’t know that her body was capable of _feeling_ so much at once. But she never wanted it to stop.

“That’s what I’m doing here, Cass,” he laughed into her chest, bare with a sheen of sweat. “How does it feel? Tell me. I want to know.”

In this moment, it felt like he was asking more from her. He wasn’t just asking about how she was feeling physically. She felt herself slowly coming down from her orgasm and sighed heavily in bliss.

He leaned down and kissed the bridge of her nose, then her forehead, and she found herself wondering if he was this gentle with every girl he’s been with, with _Kelly,_ or just her. _Please, god,_ she thought, _let it just be me._

“Tell me,” he asked her again, his dark eyes imploring her own, their color contrast almost startling in the reflection of the mirror behind them.

His expression was genuine, wholesome, and open. _Vulnerable_. Neither of them did vulnerable, it was one thing they had in common, but she found that it looked good on him. Really good.

She hoped that he was thinking the same thing about her right now. He had to be, otherwise, this wouldn’t work, and then she would die of embarrassment and never show her face again.

She curled further into the mattress instinctually and pulled the covers up over her exposed nakedness. He smirked, but it wasn’t that bad-boy smarmy one he usually gave, it was in humor. He was laughing at her in his head. She almost pouted but held off.

Instead, she let him pull away the duvet and kiss her again. Less sex-crazed this time. It was mild, and he tasted faintly of her perfume.

“I love you,” she said when he broke apart from her.

He grinned. Harry Bingham actually _grinned_. Like a freaking child. It made her love him more.

“Well, well. Cassandra Pressman. I knew this day would come. When you’d give into your desires and fall deeply and hopelessly in love with me. If I denied you long enough. You’ve always wanted what you couldn’t have. Which for you and me – wasn’t a lot, was it?”

He left them in silence for a minute before he chuckled and kissed her hair.

“I’m kidding, Cass. I love you, too. I just wanted to see how long I could stretch it before I was forced to admit it to myself. And to you.”

He kissed her lips this time. Long and slow, gently nipping her bottom one as he separated from her. “I guess it only took one kiss. And, you know, the end of the world as we knew it.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed. Such an _amazing, crazy_ , thing came from such an entirely fucked up situation.

He rolled off of her and took her in his arms from behind, delicately spooning her like she weighed no more than eighty pounds. He kissed her back, the spot where her spine protruded the most, and she was increasingly aware of his fingertips tracing the scar along her chest.

He hummed. “Baby’s got a battle scar.”

She turned over to face him. She wanted to see his reaction. “It’s a congenital heart defect.”

When his face blanched, she shook her head and ran her hand across his forearm in comfort. “Don’t worry. I take medication for it. And it’s not like having sex is going to kill me. You’re safe.”

He chuckled. “Well that’s a relief, because I want to keep doing this for as long we possibly can.”

She should have picked up on the seductive roll of his tongue earlier, but she hadn’t and so she was genuinely taken by surprise when he turned them over, so she was back to the mattress again.

She squealed before he eclipsed the sound with a kiss that filled her entire body with butterflies.

“Sounds good to me. I love you,” she managed to get out between kisses. She wanted to make sure he _really_ heard her. Make sure that he _really_ felt the same.

He grinned again. _**Damn,** was he sexy as hell when he did that._ “I love you, too.”

They managed to go three rounds before Allie called her cellphone, asking where she was, and if she’d eaten breakfast yet.

It felt like, to her, a whole day had already passed, when in actuality, as the white light of the sun peaked in through the slates of the blinds in Harry’s bedroom window, _it was just beginning._


End file.
